


I Won't Complain

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Escort Peter, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10800018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They meet every Saturday night in one of the most luxurious hotel rooms in the city.





	I Won't Complain

**Author's Note:**

> That fucking Mr. Burberry commercial

They meet every Saturday night in one of the most luxurious hotel rooms in the city. Hookers aren't cheap, but escorts are another level. The agency Wade hires from is one of the classiest around and has their people checked for disease every week. Advertised "Pleasure like no other," and actually provides too. The first escort had been a woman with a fox's smile and a cat's jade-green eyes. The second had been an experiment, a man just to see what the difference was. Wade hasn't quite been able to stop asking for him since.

"Are you ready?" he asks Wade, dressed in a suit too pretty for something that's going to hit the floor in a few minutes. It's been nearly three months and Wade still doesn't know his name. As far as he knows, it's 'call-me-whatever-you-like.'

"Yeah. Are you?"

Spitfire, because that's the only name Wade could come up with, smiles. He reaches out and takes Wade's hand, threading their fingers together as he leads Wade to the elevator. They're silent on the ride to the top floor, Spitfire lounging against the cool metal bar circling the inside of the elevator. Wade can't look away as he reaches up to straighten his tie, completely businesslike despite what they're about to do.

"It must be difficult," Wade says suddenly, breaking the heavy silence that usually rests between them. "I'm sure a lot of your clients aren't the best looking. The good-looking guys and gals don't need to hire services. Do you get a lot like me?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Spitfire murmurs in a soft voice, watching Wade with eyes sharper than anyone's eyes have a right to be. Wade can remember the reason he called this man Spitfire in the first place when he looks like this. When a guest had insulted Wade's looks, sneering down at the burn scars on his face, Spitfire had lunged at them and pinned them against a wall. Made them apologize and refused to let go until they did. Apparently he'd gotten in trouble for doing it, too, since at the agency every escort was expected to carry a certain level of professionalism.

"There's a lot wrong with me. Though I guess that's true for everyone, huh?"

Spitfire says nothing, either unwilling or unable to talk about himself. Wade knows the game is pretending that the escort is whoever you want to fantasize about, but would it hurt that much to get to know a little more about each other?

The elevator dings and slides open, letting them out into a corridor with only two rooms. Spitfire leads him to the one on the right, opening it and holding it for Wade to go inside. It's a weird disconnect to be treated like some sort of business's client when they're dealing in the sex trade. He steps into the room and Spitfire lets the door shut behind them, gesturing for Wade to take a seat on an opulent crimson couch designed for maximum comfort.

Wade kicks off his shoes and pads across the cold marble to sit where he's told to, watching Spitfire move around the suite's kitchen with practised ease to pour two whiskeys. It's silent except for the clinking of ice, and Wade can barely stand it. Every time is like this.

"Do you ever talk?" he asks. Spitfire steps out of his own shoes and nudges them into neat position as he brings both glasses over and takes a seat beside Wade, holding one of the drinks out.

"What would you like me to talk about?"

"Yourself or something. It weirds me out that you act like you have no personality. You're somebody's kid, right? A son, a grandson, an older brother, maybe? You must've had some sort of personality as a kid. A soccer player or some other sort of sport. You weren't born an escort, so why do you act like that's all you are?"

Spitfire is quiet for a long time, rolling the whiskey over his tongue as he mulls this over.

"I'm not. An older brother, that is. I was an only child."

Wade throws back his entire crystal glass of whiskey, letting it burn a track down his throat before setting it down.

"Was? There you go again. Talking like this is all you have."

"If you don't like it, why do you keep asking for me?" Spitfire snaps, a bit of heat in his voice. He quickly calms himself, downing the rest of whiskey, but something about his face having an expression other than a cool daze makes Wade's heart pick up its pace. Like that time Spitfire had defended him, the second time he'd thought of the man as something other than an escort.

"If you don't like me, I'll stop," Wade offers. Spitfire stands up, brushing a hand down his suit and looking at the floor with eyes filled with an expression that Wade recognized from the first time he'd thought of Spitfire as more. A sort of sadness or regret. Not about sex or Wade or anything specific; more like the entire world was weighing on his shoulders.

"I never said I didn't like you. You're... better than some of my other clients. More courteous, I guess. You try to clean up before we meet at least."

It's one of the longest speeches Spitfire has ever given. Wade wants to prompt for more, but Spitfire steps forward and sinks fluidly to his knees, resting his hands on the inside of Wade's thighs and pushing them apart gently. Wade swallows, as always a little shocked that someone's actually touching him. He has his own hand for comfort, sure, but it's different than another person—an attractive person, to be exact—touching him with this kind of intent.

"You're very good at your job," Wade observes slightly breathlessly as Spitfire's nimble fingers undo the buttons on Wade's shirt, and then on his own suit jacket. Spitfire laughs a little and arches an eyebrow, coy now that they're at this part of the night.

"Obviously. You keep requesting me, so I'm clearly doing something right."

Wade nods almost desperately as Spitfire takes a condom out of his suit jacket and tucks it between his teeth while he starts taking the rest of their clothes off. Wade has to look away when Spitfire removes his shirt, unable to even glance at the deep puckered marks covering his chest. The fire had ravaged him from the waist up, and taken the smoothness of one of his legs as well. He feels disgusting to be open like this, but Spitfire had fought him on this one thing. Wade had wanted it all done in the dark, some ugly fumbling under the covers so no one would have to see his skin against theirs. Spitfire had told him that wasn't the way it had to be done.

Now the man dips his head to Wade's chest and plants searing kisses on the scars, brushing a thumb over each one to warn Wade before he leans down to press his mouth against it. When Wade finally looks back, Spitfire's lids are lowered like he actually finds this sexy, and when he catches Wade's eyes his lips tilt up in a smirk.

"You look good today, Wade," Spitfire says as he takes the condom out of his mouth and drops it on the couch.

The compliment goes straight to his groin, and the feeling of having someone think he's not some sort of hideous beast actually makes him feel worthy enough to touch Spitfire back. He reaches down and grabs Spitfire's chin, then tilts it up and leans down. He moves slow and waits for a wince or grimace, but Spitfire uses the hands on his thighs to push himself up and meet Wade's lips. A kiss. That's new.

They take it slow, their kisses teasing until Wade wants to move on and deepens them. Spitfire grins against his mouth and moves in between his legs, popping the button on Wade's jeans. Even the feeling of having his pants removed drives him crazy, the way Spitfire makes sure his fingers brush down the entire length of Wade's legs when he removes them. Socks are next, and then Wade's only in his boxers.

"This isn't fair," Wade croaks as Spitfire leans forward for another kiss. "I like looking at you too."

Spitfire rolls his eyes but undoes his pants and takes them off. The whole process takes a painstakingly long time, Spitfire's teeth working his lower lip as he lets his pants pool around his ankles. Then his socks are gone and it's a question of whose boxers are coming off first. Wade gestures for Spitfire to step closer, and when the brunet is between his legs once more he lays his hands against the unblemished, smooth skin of Spitfire's waist.

"You're beautiful," he breathes, sitting up as far as he can to plant kisses on Spitfire's neck. Spitfire's head dips back and he lets loose a small moan, a purr of approval rumbling in the back of his throat.

"I wish I wasn't." The voice is so quiet Wade thinks he imagines it, and when he leans back Spitfire doesn't seem like he's spoken. Still. Wade has to wonder how many people Spitfire sees in a week, how many who don't appreciate how much work he puts into _seduction_ instead of just sex. Wade knows a lot of people who use an escort like some sort of impersonal sex toy, and he has to wonder if anyone makes Spitfire feel like his looks are something to be proud of. Spitfire makes Wade feel sexy, so someone should make him feel sexy too.

"Can we both feel good this time?" Wade's breath ghosts over the skin of Spitfire's collarbone, raising goosebumps there. It's aesthetically pleasing, not to mention gratifying, to see that he can coax reactions out of someone who has sex for a living.

"Don't we every time?" Spitfire asks as he tugs on the waistband of his own boxers and lets them fall to his feet. He certainly looks like he's enjoying what they're doing, but Wade doesn't buy it.

"I mean no high-end faking. Doesn't matter that you're good at it; it's still faking."

This makes Spitfire frown a tiny bit, and Wade lets him think about it while he removes his boxers and wraps a hand around himself. He could get off just like this and be happy; just looking at Spitfire is enough to nearly push him over the edge.

"That's not your job," Spitfire admonishes as he swats Wade's hands away, back to playing the part. He scoops up the condom and rips the packaging open with his teeth, then leans back to scoop a bottle of lubricant from the coffee table he'd set their empty glasses on. Wade can't remember him every bringing it in, so it must've been hidden behind the glasses. Subtle until the end.

Wade lets out a small hiss from between his teeth when Spitfire adds a couple of drops to his tip before unrolling the condom over him in a way that definitely took some practise.

"Do you want me to use my mouth first?" Spitfire whispers in Wade's ear, making a shiver start at the base of his spine and work its way up instead of the other way around. He shakes his head mutely, and Spitfire shrugs as he empties the rest of the lube bottle over the condom and moves to straddle Wade on the couch. He's just about got himself positioned over Wade's cock when Wade stops him.

"What?" Spitfire's voice is flatter now, and his eyes have that same faraway look they always get when he and Wade are about to have sex.

"Just wait," Wade commands, then reaches down and swirls his fingers through the lube, trying to ignore how good it would feel to start jerking himself off with Spitfire hanging over them. "I want to do this first, if that's okay with you."

He wiggles his fingers so Spitfire knows what he means, and the escort hesitates for a second as if this isn't something he was trained for. He bites his lower lip again and nods, his eyes now much more present and almost nervous. Wade can't see any reason why he should be, since they'd been about to have sex anyway. Unless... unless he was used to the other person being distracted so they couldn't see his expressions?

"If you don't want me to..." Wade lets it hang in the air; he doesn't want to force Spitfire to do anything he doesn't want to.

"It's fine," Spitfire answers quietly. "I think it's okay if it's you." He looks a little surprised himself at that, as if it had only become true after admitting it. Wade grins happily, then slides a single digit inside the other man, watching Spitfire's expression the entire time. He's smiling and rolling his hips a little as if enjoying it, but that's not the reaction Wade's looking for.

Wade lets him get comfortable with that, then adds another finger. This time he surprises Spitfire by moving his fingers in time with the small hip-rolls. They go deeper than usual and Spitfire suddenly lets out a little "Oh," his skin taking on a pinker tint. That was better. A third finger, and before Spitfire has a chance to get used to that, Wade also wraps his fingers around the brunet's cock and pumps it.

"Fuck," Spitfire gasps as his hips jerk forward, and Wade can feel him twitch inside, clenching for a second around his fingers. He angles his fingers so they hit the spot that made the other curse, and now Spitfire's hips are canting towards him and his toes are starting to curl against the couch's fabric. There. That's the spot he wants to hit.

He keeps the movements up until he feels Spitfire clench a couple more times, precum beading on his tip and leaking down his cock. Damn. Damn, it's hot, and Wade is glad he's managed to bring the other man this far because he's pretty close himself and no one's been touching him. He quickly takes his fingers out as the low ache in between his legs becomes a throb. He doesn't think he's ever been this turned on before.

"Tell me what your name is," he pants as he moves Spitfire's hips until they're in the right position again. "I don't want to call you Spitfire anymore."

The other man's eyes are dazed but they don't have that far-away look anymore, and when he begins sinking down on Wade's cock he lets out a small whimper as if it's a welcome replacement for the fingers Wade took away. He reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Wade's neck, bringing their foreheads together as he continues pushing himself down. Using the other hand to ground himself as he sinks all the way down, his voice comes out in a choked whisper.

"It's Peter."

Wade lays a hand on each of Spitfire—Peter's—thighs and begins thrusting upwards, trying to find that spot he'd found with his fingers. Peter. Somehow knowing the name feels even more intimate than having sex, and he mouths it as he tries to focus on giving the other as much pleasure as he's receiving. He knows he's hit the right spot when Peter's eyes flutter closed and his brow furrows as if he's concentrating. After a couple more thrusts, there's precum dribbling out every time Wade hits that sweet spot, and Peter's insides are shivering all around him. It's too much to handle all at once, especially with the extra sensation that comes with having lube inside the condom, and he sucks in a breath as he realizes he's going to come before Peter. Too late.

His cock twitches with thick spurts of cum, the orgasm hitting his entire body in a way it never has before.

"Ff... God..." he gasps out, his skin feeling almost feverish. "Peter, shit, you're..."

Whatever he'd been about to say is cut off when Peter's eyes fly open at the sound of his name, and then Peter is letting out a strained, breathless, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Wade, fuck," as he reaches his own orgasm. His insides clench in waves around Wade and Wade is seeing stars, but he holds it together long enough to see what Peter's face looks like as he comes. It's the kind of face that'll fuel his wet dreams and waking hours for years, and he's almost disappointed that he's only good for one round because he wants to see that face again and again. He lets Peter ride out his own orgasm, then relaxes against the couch.

"Shit," Peter states eloquently as he slowly lifts himself off of Wade. "I'll get something to clean this up with."

Wade grabs his wrist before he can leave, tugging him to sit back on the couch. He can't say he minds Peter's cum all over his stomach, not when it's more of a victory than anything. Now that he knows what Peter likes, he can give it to him next time.

"Sit down. Relax."

Peter looks at Wade's fingers on his wrist and then sighs, sitting naked on the couch and reaching up to brush a hand over his face.

"What do you want to do now?" he asks as if in defeat. Wade drapes an arm over the back of the couch, resisting the urge to put it around Peter. He doesn't think the other would appreciate that, not now that their business is almost concluded.

"Can we just sit for a while? We don't have to talk."

"Hm," Peter hums, resting his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. He looks so young like that, peaceful in a way that he doesn't usually. They spend nearly half an hour like that, naked but comfortable, not talking. Wade finally gets up to wash himself off and get rid of the condom, and he half-expects Peter to be gone when he gets back from the shower.

Peter isn't on the couch and his clothes are nowhere to be found. Wade wants to curse at letting this chance slip after he finally found out his Spitfire's name. He thought they'd finally made progress, that they'd be able to really talk now. He shouldn't have been so stupid; Peter is an escort. Sex doesn't mean anything, and is it really such a big deal to have found out his name?

Wade takes his time getting dressed, debating on whether or not to stay or sleep in the bed he has rented for the night. He's about to leave when the scent of smoke makes him turn his head in confusion and follow it to the source. Through the living room and into the bedroom, where the balcony is open and the curtains flutter lazily in front of it.

Wade pushes through the curtains to find Peter on the balcony in his suit, cigarette dangling from his lips as he looks out over the city.

"It looks pretty from the outside," Peter observes without turning, taking a long drag from his cigarette and blowing smoke out over the streets. "But it's not. It's filthy on the inside. All those dirty streets that lead to empty buildings. Fake glamour, fake smiles, fake goodness. There's no hope in this place."

Wade comes to stand beside him on the balcony, resting an arm on the railing.

"It's not all fake," he says, not looking at the city. "Its name isn't fake, and if it still remembers that then it must have hope deep down."

"Los Angeles? The Angels?"

"Fallen angels are still angels deep down."

Wade snags the cigarette from Peter's fingers, finally deigning to look out over the city too. They're like kings up here, watching over the city of angels.

"You should take a bath to clean yourself off," Wade says.

"I can't," Peter says.

They share a long look, Peter's eyes saying far more than he ever could. Wade flicks the cigarette over the balcony and takes Peter's hand, leading them to the bedroom. He gets into bed and drags Peter there with him, the two of them small compared to how large the king bed is.

"Stay the night," Wade whispers, reaching up to brush his fingers over Peter's cheeks. Peter turns his head and they kiss softly.

"Okay."

"Stay forever."

"Okay."

They fall asleep. In Wade's dreams, he wakes up to Peter beside him. In reality, when he wakes up the bed is long cold.


End file.
